Broken Road
by Silverlight
Summary: Because the past is better left in the past; because there is hope when everything seems hopeless; because love is love, and there is no why. Sometimes, it takes more than a promise to realize that love is not a burden, but a gift. [Miroku/Sango]


Summary: Because the past is better left in the past; because there is hope when everything seems hopeless; because love is love, and there is no why.  Sometimes, it takes more than a promise to realize that love is not a burden, but a gift.  [Miroku/Sango]

For **Sakura**.  Now where's MY fic?  XDXDXD

Experimenting with formatting and stuff.  Elaborate and complicated is good.  XD

=====  
_I think about the years I spent  
Just passing through  
I'd like to take the time I lost  
And give it back to you.  
But you just smile and take my hand.  
You've been there, you understand,  
it's all part of a grander plan  
that is coming true._  
                        -Broken Road, Melodie Crittenden  
=====

Broken Road

*****

            He never realized how much it could hurt to hope.  
            He stared at his hand as if the dull sheen of the rosary would fade, the wood would disappear and he'd be free without having to exert his own will.  
            He'd had hope stripped from him once, and it had hurt far more than it should have.  
            If it were still there, he had no idea what he would do.  Live out the rest of his days in peace, he supposed.  There was very little else available to him.  
            However, what if it wasn't there?  What would he do then?  
            "Houshi-sama?"  
            The tentative query jolted him from his inner turmoil, and he smiled pleasantly at the girl before him, at his answer.  "Yes, Sango?"  
            "Are you…" her voice faltered.  "Are you okay?"  
            "I'm fine," he reassured her, but his mind screamed at the lie.  She bit her lower lip and looked at his hand, and he took the opportunity to examine her.  
            She was a mess.  Her hair was half unbound, due to the exertions of fighting, and sweat streaked her brow.  Tearstains were obvious, and her eyes were rimmed with red.  Her body also seemed to be on the verge of collapse due to exhaustion.  Not that, he was sure, he looked any better, but he had suffered far less than her.  After all, he hadn't lost a brother.  However, she seemed to have come to a resolution of sorts with it, as if they'd worked something out before his death.  Perhaps they had, but it wasn't in his place to ask.  
            "Houshi-sama, your hand?"  
            He swallowed.  "I don't know," he admitted.  "I'm afraid what might be there."  
            She gently took the hand in both of hers, unravelling the fingers from its fisted position.  Her cheeks were tinted with colour as she queried, "May I?"  He closed his eyes and nodded, wincing as the heavy, familiar weight disappeared from his hand.  
            Nothing happened.  
            His eyes flew open, and he was surprised to see her smiling gently, depositing the wooden rosary onto the skin of his right palm, and closing his fingers tightly over it.  
            "It's gone," she whispered.  "You're free."  
            Incredulity took hold of him and finally, he laughed.  The hard beads dug into the soft skin of his palm, and he wondered at how such a simple thing could give him such happiness.  
            It was over.  
            The seasons would now begin to blur endlessly for him.  He would no longer have to count them as if his life depended on it.  
            "I…" tears choked him.  She said nothing, but there was soft comprehension, then surprise on her face as he pulled her into a fierce embrace.  "Thank you," he whispered before releasing her.  Her face was crimson, but her eyes held a little more life, a little more hope in them than they had before.  
            "You're welcome," she answered softly.  
            Time, he realized, had no hold over him anymore.

*****

            "I'm going home," Sango calmly said.  Miroku raised an eyebrow.  "It's past time," the taijiya clarified.  Her smile was almost…sad.  "Besides, there's no reason for me to stay here anymore."  
            "I suppose not," the monk replied.  He hesitated.  Then, "Inuyasha and Kagome-sama won't be returning for a while."  The well had to be sealed.  At least, until the Shikon no Tama was purified or had disappeared entirely from the world.  No matter what time period, it would never be safe.  
            "I'm going to miss her," she commented wistfully.  "And Inuyasha as well.  He was handy to have around in a fight."  
            He chuckled a little at that.  "That much is true.  He was amusing as well."  
            "I concur," she said wryly before giggling.  "We had some good times, didn't we?"  
            "We did."  
            There was a moment of awkward silence before she ventured to break it.  "I want to rebuild the village, so I won't be able to return.  At least, not for a while."  Her eyes held a faraway look as she added, "and I want to bury Kohaku's remains with everyone else's."  
            The last syllable lingered in the air, as if it were waiting expectantly.  However, there wasn't anything Miroku could say to that, and after a brief moment, she shook herself out of her reverie.  
            "I'm going alone," she continued.  "Shippou's going back home to the mountains, and I sent Kirara with him.  He needs her protection far more than I do.  She'll join up with us in the village."   He blinked a little at this.  Even if Sango was more than capable of taking care of herself, it was still dangerous.  He said as much aloud.  She shrugged noncommittally.  
            "I'm used to travelling by myself.  I used to do it all the time."  
            "I see," he murmured.  The tension was palpable between them until finally, "Would you like company?"  
            She paused for a moment.  A faint blush stained her cheeks, and her lips curved in a minute smile.  "I think I'd like that."

*****

            "If I may speak to the owner of this fine establishment," Miroku said, plastering a pleasant smile on his face.  Sango sighed and rolled her eyes inwardly.  Not that she was complaining about the good food and clean bedding, but the monk hadn't an honest bone in his body.  "I believe that you may be harbouring some evil spirits unknowingly," he continued, blithely unaware of her uncharitable thoughts.  
            "Certainly," one of the guards said, before summoning a nearby servant to fetch the master.  "He'll be here in a moment."  
            They stood outside the gates politely.  Sango watched almost bemusedly as Miroku chatted with the guards, and the lord of the home when he arrived.  Finally, he finished by placing an ofuda upon the gates.  Obviously grateful, the lord offered them a night's worth of accommodation, which the monk accepted with practiced grace.  
            "Do you ever tire of this?" Sango asked when they were readying themselves for bed that night.  
            "Tire of what?"   
            "This," she replied, gesturing all around her.  "Lying and cheating.  Is it really necessary?"  
            He shrugged.  "I suppose not," he admitted.  "But I've been doing this for so long that it's become a habit."  
            "We _could _just sleep outside, you know," she reminded him gently.  "I don't mind, as long as the weather's good."  
            "Why should we when we don't have to?" he answered philosophically.  "Besides," he said, leering suggestively at her, "the wilds aren't as comfortable for s—"  
            She slapped his hand away from her bottom almost absent-mindedly.  "Don't even think about it, Houshi-sama," she reprimanded, her cheeks flushing at the thought.  He pouted outrageously, but his gaze was dangerously intent.  "We should be there in two or three days, depending on the weather," she continued, studiously ignoring him.  
            "Sango…"  
            "Maybe even four days if there's rain…"  
            "Sango…"  
            "But otherwise, I expect that we'll run into lit—"  
            "Sango, look at me," Miroku said firmly, taking her hand in one of his and drawing her gently towards him.  His eyes were serious, the flecks of lavender mixing hazily with the gold of candlelight.  
            "Y-yes Houshi-sama?" she stammered, aware that her cheeks were burning treacherously.  
            His face drifted closer to hers, inching so slowly that it could have been her imagination.  "Sango…" he whispered.  "I—"  
            "Youkai!" a guard shouted outside, interrupting them.  
            Startled, they moved away from one another, the moment broken.  There were a few minutes of silence before Miroku cleared his throat.  
            "I suppose I better go see what kind of youkai it is," he said, picking up his shakujou.  Sango nodded mutely, and he left, sliding the door shut gently behind him.  
            There was no rest for the weary, the girl thought as she pulled on her fighting garb resignedly.  Not even for them.

*****

            He had to remind himself repeatedly that he no longer had the Air Rip to depend on, that he couldn't just suck this monstrous apparition into the palm of his hand.  He hadn't realized how much he had come to depend on it, how much that dangerous void had been a part of him until he could no longer depend on it.  It had saved his life many times, he realized with no little degree of irony.  
            Evade, feint, jump.  He was getting sloppy, he ruefully thought as he barely avoided a swipe at his head.  It was only a low-level tiger youkai; he shouldn't be having this much trouble with it.  
            "Houshi-sama, duck!" he heard a familiar, beloved voice order calmly.  "Hiraikotsu!"  
            He heard the guards whistle as the boomerang sliced through the youkai's forearms and moments later, through the body.  
            "Did you see that?" one guard asked another.  
            "That was incredible!  I wonder what that boomerang is made out of…"  
            "And a woman!  I wouldn't mind someone like her…"  
            He seethed inwardly at the comments.  His envy only heightened when he saw a startled blush tint her cheeks, proving that she had heard the comments.  She also did not seem displeased by them.  He clenched his teeth.  
            He turned his head slightly so he would not have to witness the spectacle, slowly levering himself to his feet.  The rings of his shakujou clanged in a discordant, jarring sound, and from the corner of his eye, he spied a movement from the carcass of the youkai.   
            "Sango, look out!" he cried, moving with all of his speed.  Cradling her close to him, he grimaced in pain as lines of fire ran down his right shoulder and arm.  He really _was _sloppy if he couldn't avoid that, he thought, somewhat annoyed.  
            "Houshi-sama, are you all right?" she asked, touching his arm concernedly, and gasping when she felt blood.  He clutched her even more tightly to him, afraid to let her go.  
            He adored her, he adored her, he adored her.  He never wanted to let her go.  
            When had this happened?  
            _To me you are a special girl…_  
            A fragment of laughter, the whisper of tears.  A promise made long ago.  
            "I'm fine," he reassured her, letting himself treasure this moment of closeness with her.  Then, out of habit, he allowed his hand to trail dangerously close to he—  
            "I was just trying to see whether you suffered from any physical injuries or not!" he whined moments later, as she untangled herself from his arms.  A prominent hand mark marred his cheek, and the guards were having difficulty stifling their chuckles.  
            "Thank you," she said dryly, her eyes narrowed angrily.  "I'm fine."  
            He felt the corners of his mouth lift in an irrepressible smile.  
            His special girl was safe, and for the moment that was all that mattered.

*****

            "Does this hurt?" Sango asked quietly, dabbing the wound gently.  He winced, and then shook his head.  
            "It's fine," he said, and then smiled gratefully at her.  "Thank you."  
            She returned the smile briefly before she began bandaging his arm.  The roll of strange cloths that Kagome had brought from her time worked extraordinarily well as bandages, and she was careful to use as little as possible.  They both knew that Kagome wouldn't return soon, and that they had to conserve the medicines that she had brought with her.  
            They would have to delay their journey, she knew.  The lord had offered his home to them for another day, and Sango had accepted gratefully, knowing that the monk wouldn't have.  This was her fault.  If she hadn't been so careless, Miroku wouldn't have gotten hurt.  
            "I'm finished," announced Sango, tying the last knot on the bandage as tightly as she could.  Surprising both of them, she leaned her head lightly against his swathed shoulder, her eyes shut tightly.  
            "What is it, Sango?"  
            "Promise me," she whispered, "that you'll never do that again."  
            "Do what?"  
            "That you'll never take another blow for me," she answered, fighting back tears.  She swallowed.  "You wouldn't have gotten hurt if it weren't for me."  
            "Sango, it wasn't your fau—"  
            "Promise me," she continued relentlessly.  "Please.  I can't lose someone else," she whispered, choking back her sobs as best as she could.  "It would kill me."  
            "Sango…"  
            "Promise me," she choked out.  "Promise that you won't do that again."  His shoulder was so solid and comforting, even partially covered with bandages.  
            Using his free hand, Miroku managed to tilt the taijiya's head to face his.  "I can't promise that," he said gently, his hand sliding from her chin to cup her cheek, "because I'll always take the blow for you when I can."  
            "Why?" Her hand rose to cup his out of its own volition.  "Why would you do that for me?"  
            "Because I'd rather have you live for me than die for me," he answered simply, leaning his forehead onto hers.  "I'd rather die knowing that a special girl to me is alive and well than live and see you hurt."  
            Her eyes grew wide as he said this.  His hand turned to grasp hers and pull it away from her face.   
            "Sango, I promise to always protect you," he said softly, warm breath brushing her face.  She closed her eyes and let tears slip down her cheek.  
            Thank you," she said softly.

*****

            "Sango, why aren't you talking to me?" the monk nearly whined, pouting outrageously.  "Are you mad at me?"  
            The taijiya neatly ignored him, fanning the flames of the fire with practiced ease.  Frowning worriedly, she placed a couple pieces of wood on the blaze carefully, and nodded to herself when she was satisfied.  
            "Can you at least tell me why you're mad?"  
            They definitely had to find another source of water soon, she thought as she glanced at the bottles of water.  
            "Sango?"  
            Humming almost absent-mindedly, she untied her hair, and rummaged in her travel bag for the strange brush that Kagome had given her, her back pointedly facing the monk.  It felt soothing to comb out her tresses after a long day of travelling.  
            She felt a familiar squeezing on her bottom.  Turning rapidly, eyes narrowed and cheeks red, her hand reached automatically, only to have it caught in a firm, unrelenting grip.  
            "Let go of me," she hissed.  "How dare yo—"  
            "At least you're talking to me now," he commented almost smugly.  She tried to wrench her hand from his grasp, but to no avail.  
            "Now," he remarked placidly, "why are you mad at me?"  She glared at him fiercely, but he merely smiled sweetly.  
            Letting out an annoyed breath, Sango relented minutely.  "It's because you're a pervert.  Now may I have my hand back please?"  
            "As I recall, you _like _me as a pervert," he said, leering suggestively at her.  His thumb grazed her palm, and she was horrified to find herself flushing.  Turning her head away, she sniffed, closing her eyes to indicate that she wasn't going to say anymore.  Laughing, he released her hand, only to run his fingers through her hair, startling her.  
            "I like your hair," he said conversationally, tugging the brush from her fingers.  He started to run it through her locks gently, and she was annoyed at herself for enjoying the sensation.  "It's so fine and smooth," he continued when he reached a particularly nasty knot.  
            She sighed and relaxed reluctantly.  He was very good at this, she admitted privately, closing her eyes.  It felt almost sinfully good to have someone else tend to her like this.  
            "Are you mad at me because I was flirting with the lady yesterday?  Or that I haven't groped you since?"  
            "Both!" the answer flew out of her before she could restrain herself.  He stopped what he was doing, and she could sense that he was startled.  Horrified, she flushed.  
            "Really?"  
            "No."  
            He laughed.  "You're a bad liar."  His fingers ran experimentally down her spine through the length of her hair.  "You're jealous."  
            She glared at him over her shoulder, trying to ignore the shivers that he was eliciting from her.  "Am not!" she protested vehemently, crossing her arms defensively.  
            "Oh really?"  
            Before she could reply, he dropped the brush and pulled her close to him with almost frightening speed.  Sango's cheeks burned when she realized that she was being propped against a solid wall of Miroku, and she made a half-hearted attempt to free herself.  His hands skimmed the length of her arms, and she had to firmly repress another set of shudders.  
            "You're beautiful you know," he said conversationally, causing even more blood to flood to her face.  "You've got a narrow waist, and rounded hips.  And," he added mischievously, "such magnificent breasts."  As if to prove his point, his left hand squeezed the said part twice.  
             She growled and elbowed him none-too-gently in the stomach.  He wheezed and released her to clutch at his abdomen.  She turned to face him, her eyes narrowed dangerously.  
            "Serves you right, you damned monk."  
            "You do me wrong," he mourned, gazing at her through his eyelashes.  "All I did was speak the truth!  And have I ever told you that your butt is ripe and lush, just perfect fo—owww, Sango, stop hitting me please! I need to use that hand again someday…okay I can't breat—ow!  I didn't mean it like that!  What did I do to deserve this treatment from you?  All I've done is admire your more salient attributes!  Okay, choking me isn't goin—urk…Oh, and by the way, I love you and I can't live without you?"  
            Stunned, the taijiya halted her abuse, making Miroku topple onto the ground with a wince-inducing thump.  Uncomfortable silence stretched between them.  Nervously, she picked up the brush and put it back in the travelling bag, aware of the heinous flush in her cheeks.  Miroku seemed to be trying his best to _not _look at her, and for all intents and purposes that seemed best.    
            The fire crackled in a cheerful irony.  
            There was a sort of impossibly tense atmosphere, until finally, Sango ventured a tentative, "Houshi-sama?" just as he nervously said, "Sango…"  
            Their eyes met, and embarrassed yet again, they turned their heads away.  
            "I'm sorry," he murmured after a pregnant pause.  Tears filled her eyes, but she clamped them down with considerable force.  She swallowed.  
            "There's nothing to be sorry about," she answered, just as quietly.  "You've already told otherwise before.  I'm sorry for being jealous."  
            Miroku stared at her in shock, realizing that she was valiantly trying to fight tears.  "Sango…"  
            "You don't have to bother, Houshi-sama."  She stood up resolutely, her figure straight in the firelight.  "I'm going to gather more wood."  
            "Please stay.  I'm not finished," he said, his voice gaining confidence as if he had come to a sort of conclusion.  She took a deep shuddering breath.  "I was apologizing for yesterday," he continued, when she made no movement.  "I never intended to hurt you."  
            "I already sai—"  
            "Let me finish," he interrupted uncharacteristically, levering himself to his feet.  "When I had the Kazaana, I couldn't love anyone, not even someone as special as you.  I asked you whether or not you'd stay with me, have my children when it was all over, and you said yes.  
            "But things are different now."  He let out an explosive whoosh of air before plunging on bravely.  "Sango, are you still willing to have my children?  And more importantly, is the girl that I hold and treasure so dearly willing to spend her life with me?"  
            Her eyes widened in shock and tears ran down her cheeks.  Her head swivelled to face him, and he was taken aback by the pure well of emotion in her expression, so much that he nearly did not hear her answer.  
            "I…I am."

*****

            They made love for the first time beneath a moonless summer night.  
            It was amazing what a confession of love could do, but sometimes, that was all it took.  The simplest words could create the most beautiful moments.  Or so it should have been.  
            It was his first time as well as hers, and consequently, while he fumbled his way towards ecstasy, she was left on the brink of desire.  She'd said nothing, but he could see it in the shady disappointment of her eyes that she tried to hide behind the flush of her skin.  It made him love her more for it, and the realization of that love warmed him once again.  He drew her close to him, skin against skin beside the dying light of the fire.  
            "I'm sorry," he said finally.  He felt her shake her head.  
            "There's no need," she said finally.  
            He closed his eyes against the surge of guilt and emotion that threatened to engulf him.  "This wouldn't have happened if I wasn't so selfish."  
            "It's not your fault, Houshi-sama," she said quietly, levering herself on her elbow to look at him.  "It was probably my fault.  After all, I've no experience in these things."  
            "I don't either," he admitted, running his hand experimentally along the length of her arm.  She raised a disbelieving eyebrow at him.  "I couldn't risk it," he explained.  His hand had extended its exploration from her arm to her waist and hips now.  "I didn't want to have a child with someone I couldn't love."  
            "Oh," she said.  Her face took on a peculiar expression.  "Houshi-sama, where do you think you're putting your hand?"  
            He chuckled, but didn't remove the offending appendage.  "And you're complaining?" he asked, leering at her.  He was surprised when she blushed and looked away.  
            "No," she answered quietly.  "Not this time."

*****

            Death, more often than not, is a catalyst for sorrow.  
            Even now, it was all she could do to choke back tears as she knelt and laid quiet, yellow flowers on the graves of her family and friends.  Miroku made a respectful obeisance and blessing to the dead, and withdrew quietly.  She felt a pang at his absence, but he was right in doing so; he was not part of her past, but of her future.  She closed her eyes and prayed silently for a few moments.  
            "Chichiue, everyone, I'm home."  Her quiet voice broke the silence of the waiting mounds.  "Sorry for keeping you waiting for so long.  I brought Kohaku back with me so his spirit could rest alongside yours."  Breathing deeply, the taijiya struggled for a moment.  "We've avenged you.  You can move on peacefully to your next lives.    
            Memories slipped over her like water, drawing her into its depths.  Of laughter and song, learning and play.  Of family and friends, whose lives ended far too soon.  Of fire and grief, and the deep, merciful darkness of vengeance, and the friendship that barely managed to bring her back.  
            But then, while there are always second chances, they always come with a twist.  This time, she found love.  
             "Chichiue, you'd like him," she said at the thought.  "He's a bit of a pervert, is a liar, and cheats people out of their possessions.  He's only like that because he thought he was going to die, but now…" a smile played at the edges of her lips.  "He has a good heart.  I wish you could have met him." A tear trailed down her cheek just as a familiar _mew _edged at her consciousness, and surprised, she opened her eyes.  
            Her heart leapt.  Kirara was sitting beside her on the grass, and was clearly waiting for her to notice.  It was obvious that the she had been waiting for Sango to notice her for some time, but she didn't hold that against her mistress.  Laughing, the taijiya hugged her neck, missing the familiar weight and warmth, recalling moments when she watched Kohaku hold the gentle youkai in his arms.  
            As if the simple action has triggered something, more tears fell until suddenly, she found herself laughing and crying in Kirara's fur.  
            She wept for the loss of her family and brother.  For Kagome and Inuyasha, whose love finally could grow in peace.  For Shippou, who was denied his family far too young because of the Shikon shards, but managed to grow up anyways.  For Kikyou, whose sacrifice gave them all a chance.  For Sesshoumaru, who covertly helped them even if he would always deny it.  For Miroku, who managed to avenge his ancestors, and most of all, for herself.  For her pains, her aches and grief.  For the lost of her youth and innocence, the heavy burden that had been placed unwillingly upon her shoulders, and mostly, she mourned for what might have been.  
            The sun shone its light of blessing gently onto her as she finally permitted herself to heal.  
            Sorrow, more often than not, is a catalyst for tears.  
            Finally, exhausted, she had to stop.  Raising her head slightly from Kirara's damp fur, she was shocked to find it nearing the end of the day.  Rising to her feet somewhat awkwardly, she winced when her bones shifted and cracked audibly.  Kirara transformed into her kitten form and scampered agilely onto her mistress' shoulder.  
            Feeling somewhat serene, she walked towards the light of her home.  Miroku had clearly taken a few liberties, but she didn't mind so much.  After all, they were to be married soon.  
            Her cheeks burned at the thought.  Marriage.  Her father had never pushed it on her as previously, she had shown no interest on the subject, and the males of the village had never regarded her as a female as she was far stronger than most of them.  
            In a strange way, she thought with a certain degree of cynicism, it was as if Fate was trying to make up for giving her such a hard time.  If she hadn't been forced to change so drastically, hadn't been made to take up the burden of vengeance, she would never have known Miroku, known what it was like to fall in love.  
            If she had been asked whether she would take her current life over her past, she wouldn't be able to answer honestly.  However, seeing that it was unlikely that she'd ever have to face such a choice, she could live and learn to be content.  
            True love, after all, is not a burden, but a gift.

*****

            The brush moved skilfully over her hair, and she sighed, closing her eyes and tilting her head slightly back.  
            It had become a nightly tradition for him to comb her hair before they made for bed.  He liked the feel of her locks through his fingers, and she enjoyed having someone else tend to her for a change.  Kirara drowsed by the hearth, tired after a few days of hard travelling.  Apparently, Shippou's home had been difficult to find, even for the kitsune.  
            "Are you feeling any better?" Miroku asked.  
            "Mm."  The non-committal answer was unlike her.  
            There were a few more moments of silence, broken only by the steady sound of brush against hair.  Then, "What are you thinking about?"   
            Her hesitation lasted long enough to make him put the brush aside and move so he could look her in the eye.  "Sango," he said quietly, "you know you can trust me."  
            "I know," she answered softly.  "It's just…I was thinking that Chichiue would have liked to meet you."  
            "Ah."  For once, he was at a loss for words.  She looked at her lap, her hands entwined rather nervously.  "Tell me about him," he finally said, his tone was gentle.  
            Her words were hesitant at first, but as she gained confidence, they became fervent and rushed.  She talked about her father, how he seemed so distant and cool at times, and at others, so loving.  She told him a story about her father, a bottle of sake and the Tanabata festival amidst irrepressible giggles and fond smiles.  From there, she began to describe other people of her village, her relatives and friends, her eyes sparkling as she gesticulated wildly.  There were times when she faltered, and he'd wait patiently until she managed to regain control of herself and start anew.  
            Finally, when the fire had burnt to mere embers, she had exhausted her repertoire.  By this time, she was leaning against his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around her, and a light blanket tucked around them snugly.  
            "Thank you," he said, when her voice had died away with the fire, "for sharing that with me."  
            She felt her cheeks burn, and hastily ducked her head so he wouldn't see.  "There's no one else I'd rather share them with."  Her voice took on a wistful note.  "I do wish everyone was still alive."  
            "But then, you wouldn't have met me," he pointed out logically, sounding almost hurt.  She drew back slightly to look at him, and rolled her eyes slightly at the ridiculous leer he was sporting, absentmindedly grabbing his hand before he could grope her.  She was learning to read and prevent his licentious intentions, much to his chagrin.  
            "You idiot," she chided affectionately, bravely twining her fingers with his.  "You were coming to find out about the Shikon no Tama.  Of course I would."  
            "But then you might not have fallen for my irresistible charms then," he teased, bending his head slightly towards hers.  
            "Then that would mean your charms weren't irresistible," she said, somewhat dryly.  
            "Ah, but they are," he answered with proprietary air.  "After all, you got caught with them."  She narrowed her eyes at him, only slightly flustered by his proximity.  
            "You vain monk!  What makes you thi—"  
            He interrupted her words with a kiss, and after a few moments, she relented with willing passion.  When he finally broke contact, he whispered, "I love you."  
            "Why?"  The question hung between them, a tangible thing.  
            "Because love is love," he answered simply.  "Because you're Sango, and because I'm Miroku and it's easy to love you.  Because now, all Miroku knows is to love Sango.  There is no _why.  It just is."  
            "So you're saying love isn't reasonable."  
            "Very little is, Sango."  
            She laughed a little at that.  "That would explain why I love you myself."  
            He opened his mouth to reply to that, but then she kissed him, which led to a different kind of conversation, and another chance to make things right.  
            Fate can screw up sometimes, but it rarely does the second time around, especially when it comes to matters of love._

*****

**Notes**: (big long ones)

Yukata – a light, informal type of kimono.  Kimono didn't actually start showing up until the 18th century (which is waaay past the Sengoku Jidai), and until then, yukata were worn.  They still are, and are infinitely more comfortable and easy to move in.  (Fighting in a kimono would be nigh impossible, thank you very much.)  I'm aware of the linguistic root of kimono, and what its literal meaning is, but technically, "kimono" wasn't really referred to as a garment until actual kimono came out.

Chichiue – a formal, archaic form of addressing one's father.  Sango uses this.

"Move on to your next lives."  I'm assuming here that Sango is at least fearful enough to have a religion, and in ancient Japan, that would be a sect of Buddhism, and if I'm correct, would lead to reincarnation and nirvana et al.

Tanabata – if I remember correctly, it's an archaic Japanese festival used to celebrate love, during the summer.

Written for **Sakura**, who still owes me MiroSan.  *stares*

Bleh bleh and bleh.  This did not come out the way I'd intended for it to.  I wanted to explore a few dimensions of their relationship, mostly the physical and the metaphysical.  There's a lot left unsaid in the series, and personally, I think Takahashi is going to cop out again when it comes to these two.  Miroku doesn't really need a resolution as much as Sango does, so the fic is mostly from her POV.

Originally, this was supposed to be a series of mini-vignettes, one leading after another, hence the disjointed and fragmented feel.  My reason for getting rid of Kirara was probably contrived as hell, but ignore that please?  There are some scenes from this fic that I'm pleased with, and some others that I'm not, but I think it could scrape by as decent.  *squints*  Sa-chan, my apologies for not writing something better, but well…this is the best I could come up with.

**Acknowledgements:**

The, " …And I love you and can't live without you?" is from **Kit**.    
The "love is love…" line came from **Absolut Angel** and, "love isn't reasonable" from her Inu fic, "_Scarlet_," which is wonderful to the extremes.  Ilana also provided the title song for the fic, AND she even made me a Miroku/Sango video AND gave me the summary for the fic.  3 3 3  
**Flamebyrd** gave me the, "…I wish they were still alive" section.    
Kaichou, Netchama, Lizlet, daisuki yo~!

**Absolut Angel**: he would probably say he doesn't know, because love is love and there is no WHY.  Because she's Sango, and he's Miroku, and he hasn't known anything else but love for her.  Because it's easy.  To love her.  
**Absolut Angel**: XD  
**Silverlight**: ...  
**Silverlight**: Ilana, I looooove you.  
**Absolut Angel**: XD  
**Absolut Angel**: Aren't I poetic?  
**Absolut Angel**: lol  
**Silverlight**: very.  XD

Go read _Scarlet_.  And _Melody of Time_.  And if you don't, I'll be mean and kick you.  XD


End file.
